


yes, and…

by faorism



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Era, Canon Compliant, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gabriel Smartly Subscribes to The Most Important Axiom of Mentorship, Gen, Namely If Ya Want The Lesson To Stick Ya Gotta Feed Em, Rites of Passage, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 11:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12886737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faorism/pseuds/faorism
Summary: On a side street off Venice, on an odd Monday, the time creeping closer to 2 PM than 1, Jesse faces a test and also eats some fucking amazing fish tacos (but that's probably beside the point).





	yes, and…

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written for the [classified: the blackwatch zine (2017)](https://blackwatchzine.tumblr.com/). thank you to the editors who put such a beautiful zine together, and thank you for everyone who bought a copy. love you all! **and an important note to readers of[hot oil spit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9385004) fic:** in addition to posting this as its own fic, i plan to incorporate this story into hot oil (but greatly expanded). i hope it doesnt feel like cheating! given that the bwz was not geared specifically toward mchanzo fans, i wanted to give people the chance to read the story in its original form if they want to steer clear of the ship. so please skip this if you dont want hot oil spoilers! thank you!

El Gallito parks on a side street off Venice near the convention center Fridays, Saturdays, Sundays, and every odd Monday. The rest of the week the truck's got a spot in Burbank, but the text to Jesse's burner specified this here particular side street off Venice, on one of them odd Mondays. 1 PM.

_Come hungry._

Jesse's been looking forward to this lunch for six days. It's his first solo mission. Six days he's been the fool, play-acting the lonely tourist schtick, and he feels that time in the tired crooks of his knees and in how antsy he is for some familiar company, even of the Blackwatch variety.

So here he is, turning off Venice on an odd Monday at 1:18 PM.

He whistles low at the sight of El Gallito as he rounds the corner. The website didn't mention they've set up in an honest to god automobile—with wheels and everything. It's precious for a city like LA, where no matter how many garages they build up, there ain't no way to accommodate all them hovercars since the tech got cheap post-Crisis. Around El Gallito, hovers zoom in and out down the streets like they ain't never have to stop at a red. The contrast between propulsion streaks and the grittiness of tire rubber gives El Gallito the stubborn old-school flair that's less retro chic and more _fuck you_.

Jesse should be surprised to see Reyes sitting in one of the fold-out chairs in front of the truck. In the thirteen months Jesse's been under his command, Reyes ain't never come out of his HQ jailhouse unless there's fifteen plus Blackwatch goons on the ground.

But the man makes sense in the shadow of this technological relic, and not only ‘cause of the El Gallito-branded box open on his lap. He's traded in boots for kicks, tactical pants for black cut-offs, and Kevlar for a pale pink tee with a rose stitched into the breast pocket. Hat's gone, and ain't it a right sight to see the top of Reyes' head.

No hoodie, either, although Reyes wouldn't need it, not to greet this peaking afternoon heat. The desert and sandy cliffs of the Gorge got hot, sure, but something about the city makes Jesse's skin stick to the measly .380 taped to his back like a goddamn tramp stamp.

Reyes sits there, though, in this heat, looking comfortable and like he alone can make sense of a senseless city.

There's another box and a drink on the seat next to Reyes, and without asking, Jesse reaches for it and sits down.

"Coulda bought my own lunch, boss," Jesse says in lieu of a greeting or a thank you.

"You were late."

"You seriously grilling me over a few minutes?" Jesse asks, lightly, knowing full well it would've been Reyes' right to leave on the dot. He'd have doomed Jesse to finding his own way home without a cash flow, but timing means a lot in their business. An operative's lateness can run the gambit of _took a left turn instead of a right_ , to _I'm being followed and can't change my destination so you'd better have cleared out before I show_ , to _I'm dog dead_. Today, Jesse needed a smoke more than he cared about the consequences, so he lit up his cigarette and watched as the 460 he needed to take passed him by.

He's mighty grateful for the leniency evident in Reyes not having left. Jesse, however, can't help but bust his boss' chops.

"And if I hadn't shown?" Jesse continues. "What you'd have done with my order?"

Reyes shoots up an eyebrow and gestures with the fist-sized sope already halfway to his mouth. "This is only my fifth. I have the room."

Jesse glances down to Reyes' box and sees two more lying in wait. Heaven help them super soldiers and their bottomless stomachs. "Well, I'd've warned you seven ain't nearly enough to whet your appetite. Dieting, sir?"

Reyes—grumpy old man that he is—cuts off the banter with a tired, "Kid. Just eat."

Don't need to tell Jesse twice. He pops open his box, and his mouth waters at the sight of four fish tacos lined up like a firing squad. His hunger rears up with a greed so profound he rushes his first bite and nearly cries. It's good. Real good.

The tacos are a goddamn revelation, and he settles into the freshness of the tilapia, the ease of crema, the joy of the salad on top.

He savors the spice of the salsa verde as it prickles his tongue.

Delights in the spray of lime.

The sturdiness of the tortilla.

The slivers of jalapeño snuck in.

The drink is a horchata. Cinnamon crests the cup rim.

Jesse wants to think of nothing beyond his mouth and his tacos, but Reyes doesn't leave base without reason, certainly not for a pick-up.

"You could've walked."

Jesse has the mind enough to not flinch at Reyes' accusation, but it's a near miss. Instead, he stuffs the last of his taco into his mouth.

He chews. Closes his eyes. Slouches hard into the stiff plastic of the chair.

First solo mission, and the kills were almost too easy. Jesse was so ahead of schedule he had entire days with nothing to do other than lie low until the pick-up. That's more than enough time to slip away.

He could've walked.

On a side street off Venice, on an odd Monday, the time creeping closer to 2 PM than 1, Jesse bites on the straw of his horchata.

"Reckoned I'll be doing petty gang shit either way," Jesse says low, even though the other customers ain't paying them no mind. "At least I'm UN-sanctioned now."

And maybe it's the comfort of the tacos and the richness of the drink, maybe it's the heat… maybe it's that Reyes brought him by a truck that is too good to be randomly Yelped (Reyes had to have come here before)… maybe Jesse isn't sure just why he does it, other than that he does.

Jesse shows his hand.

"Also, Fareeha mighta warned me about the tail."

Jesse wasn't positive there was a gun on him until right when he stopped to light up his cigarette. The bus stop only serviced the 460; there wasn't a reason for the man sitting on the bench to not board when the 12:07 came hovering by. Jesse smoked, the man waited, and they both got on the 12:18.

Yeah, Jesse could've walked; he just wouldn't have gotten very far.

Jesse peeks sideways at Reyes and scans for any proof that he's upset that Jesse might've only passed this fucked-up test because he had insider knowledge. Reyes only laughs. "Precocious girl, that one."

Reyes stands. He picks up his garbage in one hand, takes the empty box on Jesse's lap with the other. He looks expectantly at Jesse until Jesse chugs the rest of his drink and hands the cup over. Jesse feels stupid, mouth full of horchata, as he meets Reyes by the trash can. He should've played it cool. Should've come off slick and perfectly loyal and—

Reyes claps a hand on Jesse's shoulder. "You did good, kid."

Jesse isn't even sure why the praise comes: ‘cause he didn't try to lose the trail? ‘Cause he told the truth of why he didn't run? Or in the end, is it the bottom line: there's a baker's dozen fresh gravesites that will be dug thanks to Jesse's shooting on this mission.

A success, by anyone's standards.

It's been a long few day, whatever the case. Even if the heavy palm is disgustingly hot against Jesse's sweat-tacky skin, Jesse will take whatever kindness he can get.

There'll be more solo missions and eventually there'll come a time when he ain't got a tail. But in his gut—filled to the brim as it is with tacos and horchata—Jesse already knows that wherever the pick-up location, Jesse's gonna always find his way back, if only to hear the pride in Reyes' voice again. Maybe next time, he'll even be on time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ya can catch me at my [personal tumblr](http://faorism.tumblr.com) or my [fanwork one](http://faorismwork.tumblr.com).


End file.
